“Something in this batch does not smell like clover, Arthur,” I murmured to the empty room.
I lifted the spoon high, watching the golden liquid run off the wooden spoon like water.
By nine the next morning, David, my grandson, was already sweeping the concrete floor behind the heavy steel bottling tanks.
The broom bristles made a dry, scraping hiss against the gray concrete as he worked his way toward the corner.
He stopped near the large blue recycling bin, bending down to retrieve a squashed plastic container with a yellow cap that had been wedged behind the plastic rim.
He held it up to the morning light filtering through the high windows.
“Does Arthur use this stuff to grease the conveyor belts?” David asked, turning the bottle over to read the sticky back label.
It was a thirty-two-ounce squeeze bottle of commercial corn syrup, the cheap kind with the blue label.
I glanced up from my ledger, resting my hands on the cool metal desk.
“He probably bought that for his lunch,” I said, leaning against the edge of the metal table. “Arthur loves sweet things on his biscuits, and he is always bringing fast food into the shed.”
